


Visus Novum

by sarahgene12



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Wishful Thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 01:25:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16483433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahgene12/pseuds/sarahgene12
Summary: Mary Morstan knew the truth about John Watson and Sherlock Holmes possibly even before they realized it themselves. It's the first Halloween after Mary's death, and John simply cannot deal with dressing his daughter up for the festivities. Sherlock offers his help (in his way) and the tension which has sat between them since Mary's death comes to the surface.





	Visus Novum

There’s an understanding, John thinks, between them. It lies unspoken and largely ignored, slightly ridiculous but familiar, like the bison head in the sitting room, the one with the headphones. They put it back after the explosion, back in its old place above the desk. Because it felt right. Because it belonged.   
It was a bit like that. After the explosion. After Sherringford. After what Mary had said. Nearly a year had gone past, Rosie starting to make her first attempts at staying upright on her own, starting to get used to the fact that Mummy wasn’t here anymore and the slightly awkward, spindly thing with curly hair was suddenly here a lot more. Sometimes, when John held her, she saw Sherlock and reached for him. Saw him as something to be trusted, something as familiar as the knife in the mantle and the lingering stench of formaldehyde. 

And now it was nearly Halloween. Not Rosie’s first, but the first one she might actually remember, one where a costume might actually be possible without her sicking up on it. Molly had been full of ideas, as had Mrs. Hudson, but John just somehow…. couldn’t do it.   
“She was a pumpkin last year, wasn’t she?” asked Molly, not looking at John but paying plenty of attention to Rosie, who had been maneuvering herself around the edges of the coffee table. Hand over hand, clumsy foot over clumsy foot, she made her way, with Molly’s outstretched hand there to catch her.   
“Yeah well, all babies are pumpkins the first year, aren’t they? You just kind of, stick ‘em in it for couple of hours and take loads of pictures. It’s not that easy now that she’s almost walking.” 

Molly smiled, pressing a steadying hand to Rosie’s back. She still didn’t look at him. “She’d make a lovely little witch, though. I was a Raggedy Ann doll, apparently, when I was two. My mum made me a little dress and everything. I’ve got pictures, maybe Mrs. H could make up something? If you asked?”  
Now it was John who wouldn’t look at her. He stared past her into the kitchen, where Sherlock seemed intensely focused on fixing his tea. He seemed to go on stirring it for as long as John watched. 

Molly cleared her throat.   
“What? Oh, sorry, Molly, I’m not sure where I went.”   
Her expression was annoyingly grave. “Just think about it, won’t you? I think it would help, you know, somehow. You’re a really great dad already, and I think it would be good to start making happy memories of—“ here she faltered a little, her dark brown eyes locking on John’s, somehow simultaneously full of fear and pity. “Of the two of you.”   
A tiny clatter in the kitchen as Sherlock finally finished stirring his tea. John forced a grateful smile past the enormous lump in his throat. “Yeah, yeah I will. Thanks, Molly.”   
She took his hand before she went, kind of cradled it in both of her own. “Don’t be afraid to ask for help, okay? It’s a lot harder to do on your own.” She sort of hugged him after that, an awkward half hug that felt more appropriate for a mediocre first date than for old friends.   
A long shadow fell across the staircase as he closed the front door, sighing heavily. 

“What did Molly want?”   
Without turning, John said, “You were there. Listening. She thinks we ought to have Mrs. Hudson make a costume for Rosie.”  
“Yes I heard.”  
John turned, expecting some snide remark. He’d gotten used to those. “And?”  
Sherlock shrugged, taking a few steps down towards John. “I think it’s a great idea. Babies need fresh air, don’t they? Social….interaction. And like Molly said, you’re her father, you should make memories, take pictures.”  
John laughed, hating how bitter, how….fake it sounded in the empty foyer. “You’re serious? I was expecting you to tell me how banal you think this particular holiday is, how childish and—and idiotic everyone else is by celebrating it, how going door to door and asking for sweets is some sort of evolutionary—” Losing his train of thought, John looked up at Sherlock, faintly aware his hands were clenched in tight fists. 

Sherlock was quiet.   
Then he said, “You surprise me, John.” Three more steps down the stairs, his eyes catching the light through the window behind John and flashing like a cat’s.   
“Do I? Why?”   
“I hadn’t thought you knew how to use ‘banal’ in a sentence. Well done.” A slight, self-satisfied smile, thin as a paper cut.   
John barked another laugh, this one halfway between rage and defeat. “You know what I mean. You hate most other holidays, I just assumed you hated this one as well.”  
Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “So you’re not going to do anything for Rosie, then?”   
John blinked. “You never call her Rosie.”  
“Of course I do, it’s what you call her, it’s her name.”  
Sherlock said nothing after this, eyes raised towards the top of the stairs. John watched him for a long time, wondering at the expression on his face. It made the detective’s features softer than John was used to seeing them.   
He reached out then, lightly touching Sherlock’s forearm, with just the tips of his fingers.

“Sherlock, I’m—” John stepped closer, strengthening his grip on Sherlock’s arm, actually wrapping his hand around it and squeezing, to make him stay. He could feel the nerves, the blood, something, pulsing and racing, just under the skin.   
When John looked up at him, Sherlock’s eyes were wide, his bowed mouth slightly open. He almost looked frightened. John held him still.   
“I’m sorry, alright? That’s what I’m trying to say. I know I haven’t been very— good. I haven’t been very good at, at being there, for Rosie or—or for you. I’ve found it hard to be a good dad, and I know I’ve been a bloody awful f-friend.”

He stared at his shoes. Upstairs, worlds away, Rosie cooed.   
John felt the air around their two bodies move slightly, felt the muscles in Sherlock’s arm jump and strain; all of the sudden Sherlock’s other hand reached out for his, hanging limp at his side. Those long lithe fingers curled gently around his own, and John daren’t breathe, feeling a million things at once, feeling slightly drunk and as if he’d pilfered one of Sherlock’s vials of cocaine all at once.   
“John….”   
John’s hand closed tightly around Sherlock’s. He heard Sherlock gasp quietly, sharply.   
“John…”   
Just his name again, whispered this time and so aching, so soft, that John felt a sudden warmth, slow and sweet and startling, spread from the middle of his chest to his ears, and he could barely think.  
He knew what he wanted to say, what he needed to say, right then. What he should have said long before now.   
What he actually said was: “I need to go for a walk.”   
Sherlock didn’t move, but something in him tensed. He backed away slowly, his mouth and his eyes still wide and soft, the slightest pink brush sneaking up the narrow ridge of those high, sharp cheekbones.   
He didn’t look sad, or disappointed. He looked….comfortable. That was the only word for it, and it scared John to death. He relinquished Sherlock’s hand little by little, watching their fingers slide within and without each other, different in every way two hands possibly could be.   
Still not exactly meeting Sherlock’s eyes, he asked, “Look after Rosie for a bit?”   
“Of course.”

John walked for hours. It was nearly dark by the time he rounded the corner onto Baker Street, and his mind was made up.   
He’d spoken with Mary for most of the way. She didn’t talk back much any more, but that was alright. He thought she’d already said what she’d needed to say in the video. And now he thought he was willing to understand it.   
He stopped at the door, gazing up at the three windows which made up his home. All three glowed dull orange; he stared especially long at the one he knew looked in on the sitting room.  
He ascended the stairs slowly, stepping only on the place he knew wouldn’t make any noise. After the years of nearly constant use, these spots were getting fewer and farther between, but he knew them as well as he knew the bones of his own body.   
He made it as far as the door to their flat before he stopped, and listened. He heard the low murmurs of Sherlock’s voice, and the high-pitched squeal of Rosie’s laugh, and felt such love for them both. They sounded right together, he’d felt that from the beginning but had been much too afraid to admit it to anyone other than himself.   
He opened the door.  
Sherlock sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, with Rosie in his lap. He was in his pajamas and dressing gown. John’s little girl, however—  
“Is that a pirate’s costume?”  
John stepped further into the room, unsure of his footing and his voice. Sherlock looked up at him, looking slightly sheepish. Rosie beamed up at her father.  
“Is that alright? We went to a couple of shops but it was really scraping the bottom of the barrel at this point, and I thought—”   
For once in his life, Sherlock seemed at a loss for words. Rosie tottered in a small circle, remaining upright with the gentle guidance of Sherlock’s hands, and smiling bigger than John thought she had in a long time.   
John watched the two of them for a moment or two longer, his eyes burning with stubborn tears, his heart full. Then he crossed the room to them, giving a little wave to Rosie but then—with a deep breath—kneeling down slowly behind Sherlock.   
While Rosie spun, while she babbled, John placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, then ran them down the length of both his arms, resting his rough, worn fingers overtop Sherlock’s. He lowered his head, and pressed his mouth and nose to the back of Sherlock’s head, breathing in the scent of him. He thought he could feel Sherlock shivering.  
Neither of them spoke. Rosie spun and waddled until she’d worn herself out, and then she sat herself down right in the little nest of Sherlock’s legs, almost dozing.   
The three of them remained that way for an indeterminate length of time, relishing the warmth, and the quiet, and the peace.


End file.
